The Slytherin common room felt smaller than usual, compressed by the weight of the green-tinted shadows and the heavy, rhythmic crackle of the fire. Draconia sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her fingers tracing the embroidery of her sleeve as she watched the flames lick at the charred wood. Harry sat on the rug near the hearth, his back to her, a silhouette of tension and stubbornness. He had not spoken since they left the corridor, and his silence was a physical thing that sat between them like a barrier. The warmth of the room did nothing to thaw the coldness of their argument, which had ended hours ago in a display of loud, frantic denial.
"You could at least pretend to be comfortable, Potter," Draconia said, her voice cutting through the crackle of the logs. She watched his shoulders broaden as he breathed, a slow and controlled movement. He did not turn around to face her, but she saw the way his hands tightened against the floor.
"I am comfortable enough," Harry replied, his tone flat and clipped. "I did not realize we were expected to host a formal tea service in the middle of the night."
"You are being difficult for the sake of being difficult," she said, standing up to move closer to him. She descended the steps toward the rug, her movements fluid despite the lingering ache in her side where the wound had begun to knit itself back together. "It is a tiresome habit of yours."
Harry turned then, his eyes bright and searching in the flickering light of the fire. "Is it a habit of mine to be the one standing here, or is it a habit of yours to pretend that everything is fine when you are clearly bleeding?"
"I am not bleeding anymore," she snapped, though the way her breath hitched betrayed her. She knelt on the rug before him, the thick fabric pressing against her knees as she forced herself into his space. "The stitches are holding. The mess is a trifle."
"It is never a trifle with you," Harry muttered, reaching out to catch her wrist. His thumb brushed against the pulse point of her wrist, and she felt the heat of him. He pulled her closer until her knees bumped his thighs, the distance between them dissolving into a single, shared heat.
"You should stop looking at me like that," she whispered, her eyes fixed on his mouth. "As if you can see through the entire performance."
"The performance is failing, Draconia," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You can keep the mask on if you want, but we are alone in this room."
She reached out, her fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him toward her. "Then stop talking. You always talk too much when you are trying to be clever."
Harry did not wait for her to finish the thought; he lunged forward, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that tasted of desperation and salt. He pulled her onto his lap, her skirts bunching around her hips as he moved her closer to the heat of the hearth. He gripped the fabric of her robes, his hands sliding up her thighs to find the warmth of her skin.
Draconia let out a low moan as his fingers found the edge of her knickers, sliding beneath the silk to touch her wet cunt. He was unyielding, his fingers working into her pussy with a blunt, rhythmic pressure that made her back arch. She reached for the fastening of his trousers, her fingers trembling as she freed his thick, hard cock from the confines of his clothes. She wrapped her hand around his shaft, feeling the heat and the pulse of him against her palm.
"Harry," she breathed, the name slipping out before she could catch it. She froze, her eyes widening as the realization hit her. "That was a mistake."
He did not let her retreat; instead, he gripped her hips and lifted her, guiding her down so that she was straddling him. He guided his cock to her opening, the tip of him sliding against her soaking wet pussy lips. She gasped, her head falling back as he pushed upward, his cock sliding deep into her tight, hot cunt. The sensation was a blunt force of pleasure and ache, a fullness that made her feel as though she might break.
"It is not a mistake," Harry grunted, his voice ragged as he began to fuck her. He thrust upward with a heavy, rhythmic force, his cock hitting her cervix with every deep stroke. Draconia wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper into her. She felt the friction of his skin against hers, the way his pubic hair brushed against her sensitive clitoris as he drove into her.
He moved her with a desperate strength, his hands gripping her arse to steady her as he hammered into her. The sound of their bodies meeting was wet and rhythmic, a series of heavy thuds that echoed in the quiet common room. Draconia reached down, her fingers finding the base of his cock as he drove into her, her nails digging into his skin. She wanted to feel every inch of him, to drown the sharp edges of her pride in the sensation of his heat.
"Harder," she commanded, her voice a jagged edge of sound. "Do not be gentle, Potter. I am not made of glass."
Harry obeyed, his thrusts becoming faster and more frantic. He was fucking her with a singular focus, his eyes locked on hers as he drove his cock into her pussy over and over. The pleasure was a building weight, a heavy pressure in her lower belly that pushed harder and harder. She felt the tension in her muscles, the way her cunt gripped him with every frantic shove.
He leaned forward, his mouth finding her neck, his teeth grazing the skin as he continued to fuck her. Draconia felt the first waves of her orgasm approaching, a coil of tension that threatened to snap. She gripped his shoulders, her fingers digging into his muscles as he drove himself into her one last time, his cock filling her completely.
"I am almost there," she choked out, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt the swell of the climax. She felt his cock pulse inside her, the heat of his cum starting to leak from the tip as he reached his own peak. The sensation was overwhelming, a blunt, glorious explosion of feeling that left her gasless and shaking.
Harry groaned her name into the crook of her neck, his entire body tensing as he emptied himself into her. He continued to thrust, his movements heavy and uncoordinated as he finished inside her. The warmth of his cum felt thick and heavy inside her pussy, a visceral reminder of the intimacy they had just shared.
They collapsed against each other, their breathing heavy and ragged in the cooling air of the common room. The fire had settled into a low, glowing ember, casting long, soft shadows across the rug. Draconia rested her forehead against his, her hair a tangled mess around her face. The silence returned, but it was no longer the sharp, jagged silence of their argument; it was a heavy, exhausted quiet.
She looked at him, seeing the way the firelight caught the gold in his eyes. He looked at her as if he had finally seen the truth of her, and she felt the urge to hide again. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she brushed a stray hair from his forehead.
"Harry," she whispered, the name a soft, fragile thing in the air. She felt the weight of it, the way it anchored her to him in a way that her pride never could. She pulled her hand back quickly, a shadow of a frown crossing her lips. "That was a mistake."